In the Interim
by NiennaTru
Summary: "We should clean him up," Shaw suggested. "He's a mess." A missing moment fic for S3E10 "The Devil's Share." Rated for mentions of blood.


Title: "In the Interim"

Author: NiennaTru

Summary: The missing moments between the standoff in the hotel and the morning after in the safe house.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, nor do I make money from this.

III

Getting a barely conscious Reese out of the hotel was anything but easy. Progress was nerve-wrackingly slow given the operative's condition, and made all the worse by the devastation John had caused in his determination to reach Alonzo Quinn. Finch led Shaw in carefully maneuvering around the unconscious bodies of a dozen federal marshals as well as the massive hole left by the explosive device John had set. As they reached the stairwell, emergency lights lit up John's face, and Harold's sense of urgency reached a new level.

"Just a little further, John. The car is just outside." Harold's voice was calm, belying his fear.

John nodded his head, but Harold wondered how much longer the younger man would remain conscious and able to walk. He felt a dreadful wetness seeping through his coat and knew that it was John's blood.

The trio made it down the final set of stairs and stumbled into the emergency exit door. Harold nearly fell as John's weight shifted against his shoulder and the taller man staggered towards the car waiting on the street. Root was seated in the driver's seat. She watched their progress, but made no move to get out of the vehicle. Harold thought that was probably for the best. He wasn't at all certain how John would react to her appearance given his current state of mind.

As they neared the car, Shaw moved to open the door and, without the additional support, John all but fell into the back seat. Once John was situated, Harold slammed the door shut and dropped into the passenger seat. He relayed directions to a safe house to Root and then made a call to Dr. Madani.

III

The doctor met them outside the brownstone with a trunk load of medical supplies and a gurney. As he leaned into the backseat in order to get a glimpse of the patient, the doctor grimaced at what he saw, but said nothing. Between the doctor, Harold, and Shaw, the three managed to drag a now unconscious John out of the car and hefted him onto the waiting gurney.

John was alarmingly still and silent throughout the awkward maneuver, in spite of the fact that the twisting and jarring had to have caused the man agonizing pain. Harold felt panic rise in his throat, but he determinedly tamped it down as he led the group toward the elevator. Once they reached the third floor apartment, Harold quickly entered the security code and opened the door, stepping aside in order to allow the doctor, Shaw, and Root entry.

Using the draw sheet, Dr. Madani and Shaw immediately transferred John onto the waiting hospital bed and began to assess the damage. Madani was calm, but worked at a pace that clearly expressed the direness of John's condition. The doctor and Shaw were a blur of movement, speaking in a kind of medical shorthand Harold had trouble following. He noted that the female operative was working alongside the doctor as if she'd never left her residency.

Harold shifted where he stood, feeling inadequate to the situation.

III

Sometime in the early hours of the morning the pace slackened and both the doctor and Shaw stopped their efforts and finally sat down. John was stable and the doctor expected him to recover from his wounds. Madani explained to Finch that, given the massive blood loss, Reese would likely be unconscious for the next several hours at the very least. Before leaving, the Iraqi doctor left instructions regarding the frequency and dosage of a strong narcotic that should be administered to the operative—not only for pain relief, the older man had emphasized, but also as a form of sedation. Madani was adamant in his belief that if Reese pulled another stunt and made a similar jaunt around Manhattan it would certainly kill him. Harold nodded and thanked the doctor, closing the door behind him.

The sudden absence of activity accentuated the silence that hung over the room, save for the steady beep, beep, beep of the monitor beside John's bed. Harold watched it for some moments and then glanced to the far side of the room where Root had settled herself hours before. A small smile played around her lips as she communed with the Machine.

Limping toward the bed Harold took his first good look at John and grimaced at what he saw. In short, the younger man looked terrible. His skin still held a deathly pallor and his eyes were deeply shadowed. Sweat drenched his face and slicked his hair. Worse still, John's shirt and jacket had been cut away in order for Shaw and Madani to work, and Harold could see that John's body was a bloody mess. A flimsy hospital sheet partially covered him and it, too was stained with blood.

"We should clean him up," Shaw suggested. "He's a mess."

Harold glanced up and nodded.

"I'll get some towels." Shaw didn't wait for a response from Harold and left the room. She returned after a moment with an armload of washcloths and towels in her hands and gestured in Harold's direction. "We'll need water."

Harold moved to the kitchen and found two plastic bowls. He filled them with warm water from the sink and carried them back to the bed. Shaw accepted one of the bowls and dipped a washcloth into the water. Harold watched as the dark-haired woman washed John with a gentleness that surprised him. It was a level of empathy he hadn't thought her capable of displaying. Sensing his eyes upon her, Shaw looked up.

"You gonna help or what?"

Harold's mouth quirked, but he merely nodded and moved to the opposite side of the bed. He dipped his own washcloth in warm water and wrung it out. Looking down at John's bloody torso he hardly knew where to begin. His stomach clenched at the gruesome sight, and he was irritated with himself. Now was hardly the time to be squeamish.

Starting at John's shoulder and then moving down the arm, Harold carefully and methodically worked to wash the blood away. He stopped momentarily to rinse out the bloody washcloth in the bowl of clean water before reaching for John's hand. Harold lifted it closer to his face in order to get a better look and felt a jolt go through him. There was blood under John's fingernails and ground deep into the grooves and furrows of his skin.

Shaw saw him looking. "That won't come out unless you soak his hands."

Harold nodded absently. "I suppose I should wait until we're completely finished."

Shaw gave an odd half-shrug. "Help me move him on his side so we can wash his back."

Harold slipped his arm underneath John's shoulder and rolled him so that the younger man was facing him. He glanced down at John's back as Shaw began wiping it down. There was far less blood on that part of his body, but as they shifted John back into a supine position, the sheet slipped to the floor and Harold noticed that John was still fully clothed from the waist down. He also saw that blood had seeped below the waistband of John's trousers. Shaw followed his gaze and moved to remove John's shoes and socks.

"We'll need to get rid of the rest of his clothes, too. He bled like a stuck pig."

Had Harold been less tired, or perhaps less used to Shaw's abruptness he might have been offended, but as it was he merely sighed and nodded wearily.

Working together, they managed to pull the blood-soaked pants over John's hips and off his body, leaving behind bloody streaks on John's legs. With some difficulty, Shaw lifted John's hips off the bed momentarily, giving Harold just enough room to pull the blood-slicked undergarment off of John. Harold avoided looking at Shaw or Reese and promptly threw the boxer-briefs and trousers into the trash. The forced intimacy of the situation was uncomfortable but he knew there was nothing to be done but continue.

Turning back toward to the bed Harold saw that in the brief moment he'd taken to discard John's clothing, Shaw had covered John's nakedness with the hospital sheet and was carefully bathing him, only moving the sheet enough to clean him while also protecting his dignity and privacy. The younger woman didn't speak or look at Harold while she worked, and in spite of their earlier disagreement, she was now solely focused on John. Harold's throat tightened at the sight. He was profoundly grateful.

Harold stepped back to the bed and began to wash the blood from John's legs and feet, noticing as he did so that John had started to shiver. He hurried to finish and then grabbed one of the towels Shaw had produced and began to dry John off. He noted that his friend looked infinitely better for having been cleaned.

"I'm assuming there are clothes around here?" Shaw asked as she picked up the bowls of water and washcloths.

Harold nodded. "Yes. I'll get them." He walked through the living area to the bedroom beyond and opened a dresser drawer. All of his safe houses were stocked with food, medical supplies, weapons (at John's insistence), and clothing. He pulled a t-shirt and pants from the drawer and returned to John's bedside.

Shaw took the pants from him and slipped them over John's feet. "Let's get this done, Harold. He's cold."

This time it was Harold who lifted John's hips in order for the pants to be pulled up. The shirt was more difficult. Shaw briefly disconnected the IV lines in order to slip John's arm through the armhole of the shirt. Together, they managed to lever John up in the bed and support his back while simultaneously pulling the garment over his head. It wasn't easy, however, and both were panting by the time it was done. Harold then arranged John more comfortably on the pillow while Shaw reconnected the IV line in John's left arm.

Harold let out a sigh of relief and picked the hospital sheet off the floor. "I'll go get him a new blanket."

"I'll get it, Finch. Why don't you get cleaned up," Shaw suggested. She paused on her way out of the room and smirked at him. "You smell."

Harold looked down at himself. His clothes were stained with John's blood, and given the stress and strain of the past hours he imagined he really _did _smell. He wavered, looking down at John.

"Go. I'll sit with him." Shaw reappeared with a clean sheet and blanket in her hands. "And if she tries anything," Shaw gestured in Root's direction. "I'll shoot her."

Unsure if the operative was joking, Harold walked to where Root was sitting, apparently still listening to the Machine. "Perhaps you'd like to get a few hours sleep, Miss Groves. There are more than enough beds to go around."

Root glanced at Harold and then her eyes flickered in John's direction. "Whatever you say, Harold." She walked to the back of the safe house, entered a vacant bedroom and closed the door.

"I won't be long, Miss Shaw." Harold stated as he watched her arrange the sheet and blanket over John's still form.

III

Harold stood in the bathroom, a clean suit in his hand. He eyed the shower. The thought of standing under the jets and allowing the hot water to relax his tight and painful muscles was very tempting, but he discarded the idea. As tired as he was, a hot shower would likely put him to sleep and he needed to remain awake. He set the clean suit aside and began to remove his soiled clothing. His suit was not as blood-stained as John's had been, but even so, Harold could hardly bring the bloody clothing to the dry cleaner. As he stripped, each article of clothing was tossed into the trash.

He turned toward the wash basin, intending to take a hurried sink bath when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His hands were slick and wet with blood and smears of red marred the side of his body that had supported John during the exodus from the hotel. It was too much. Harold made a frantic lunge for the toilet and heaved the contents of his stomach into it. His knees buckled and he clung to the sides of the bowl while violent spasms wracked his body. He continued to heave long after his stomach was empty, and the effort left him left exhausted and out of breath.

Some time later, his stomach finally settled and Harold felt able to raise himself off the floor. He walked on shaking legs to the sink. He rinsed his mouth and then pulled a toothbrush from the cabinet and brushed his teeth. Filling the sink with warm water, he washed his face and body, carefully keeping his eyes averted from the water that was slowly turning a vivid red. He toweled himself off, and then moved to the toilet in order to clean the bloody handprints away.

His hands shook as he pulled on the clean suit.

III

Harold walked back to the main living area and saw that Shaw had finished cleaning up and had placed a chair next to John's bed. The female operative was standing by the window, looking out at the lights of the city below and nursing a drink. Glancing at the table next to her, he saw a bottle of Scotch and several glasses. Harold frowned. He would need to get rid of that before John woke up.

Pulling the chair closer to the bed, Harold eased himself into it and then glanced at the monitors, seeking reassurance. Harold was no expert, but everything seemed to be within normal limits. His gaze shifted to John himself and whatever relief he had felt slipped away. John's face was slack and expressionless. He looked dead. Harold shuddered. A drink appeared in front of his face, but he shook his head.

"It'll help, Harold." Shaw's voice was quiet, but he thought he heard a note of understanding there. He looked up into her face, but as usual, she betrayed nothing. He accepted the drink and swallowed a mouthful, wincing at the burn.

"I'm assuming there are clothes for me here, too?" she asked.

"Of course, Miss Shaw. Look in the hall closet. And there's more in the bedroom closet as well."

Shaw tilted her head toward John. "I just checked his bandages and the IV. Everything looks good."

Harold nodded in acknowledgment and took another sip of his drink as Shaw left the room. He set the glass aside and reached for the blanket covering John. Taking his friend's hand in his own he examined it again. He stood somewhat stiffly and crossed the room to the kitchen. Pulling out a shallow pan from an overhead cupboard, Harold filled it with warm, soapy water and carried it back to John's bed. Scouring the apartment, he found a nail brush and, after dipping it into the water, began to scrub. The water was fouled very quickly, which forced Harold to return to the sink for a fresh supply. He made half a dozen trips and spent nearly an hour in the effort, but he finally managed to remove the blood staining John's hands.

III

Harold maintained an outward façade of calm, but his thoughts were in turmoil. He'd managed to get John out of the hotel and back to the safe house alive. Dr. Madani and Miss Shaw had ensured Reese's survival, but what now? What would happen when John awoke? Would the rage and grief still overwhelm his friend? Would it lead him back down the dark path he'd been willing to pursue in order to bring down Simmons and Quinn (and Marshall Jennings, and Peter Arndt, his brain reminded him)? Would John revert to what he had been during his time in the CIA? And if so, what could Harold possibly hope to do in order to help or stop him?

He took an unsteady breath and rearranged the blankets around John. Lying in the bed, his friend looked at once imposing and extremely frail. In researching John, the first thing he'd learned of the operative was his lethalness. Few men in the world could be said to be as uniquely talented or as incredibly dangerous as John Reese. What he had not learned, however, what he had been unprepared for, was the terrible fragility beneath all of that.

Guilt twisted in his gut. He'd confessed to John that he'd been afraid that his choices had been instrumental in bringing about devastating changes in John's life. John had been quick to defer Harold's sense of responsibility, taking the blame upon himself. And though Harold was enormously relieved and grateful that John had been willing to forgive, Harold knew that it in no way negated his role in what had transpired. The line of cause and effect could be clearly drawn.

And in some kind of sick, twisted joke, he and John were now reliving the situation. The familiarity of the circumstance in which he found himself only increased his fear and dread. Harold's choices had yet again caused John enormous pain. This _was_ his fault. There was no way around that knowledge. No softening it. The horror of the situation was almost too much, the questions and feelings of uncertainty intensifying like a rising tide, threatening to overwhelm him. Harold shifted in the chair and watched John breathe. He'd never felt so bone-tired in all his life.

The bathroom door opened and then closed. Shaw crossed the room and once again stood at the window. "The sun's coming up," she stated after a moment.

Harold's hands twisted in the blankets as he adjusted them once again. "Is it, Miss Shaw?"

He felt more than saw her turn to look at him, but he kept his gaze fixed upon John. There was nothing left to do now but wait.


End file.
